


Gaston

by SLamFic



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Disney - All Media Types, Disney Princesses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLamFic/pseuds/SLamFic
Summary: What if Gaston had survived his fall from Beast's castle? What would his life be like fifteen years later?





	

Gaston

In his younger years, Gaston was about the most popular man in town. He had always been an accomplished hunter, decorating the town tavern with his kills. His square jaw and broad shoulders made him popular with the ladies. He wrestled and spat and roughhoused with the best of them. Everyone wanted to be him. He was a man’s man, and everyone in town had loved him. His old cohort, Lefou, had always said, “There’s just one guy in town who’s got all of it down, and his name’s Gaston!” And he’d certainly relished in the attention. He knew he deserved the best, because he was the best. 

Then there was that fateful winter. The year when he’d set his eyes on the most beautiful girl in town, Belle. She was odd, to be sure, and a little headstrong, but Gaston needed a woman with some spirit. But then she’d gotten captured by that monster and eventually fell in love with it. This was such a wound to his pride that he’d led a raid to kill it and set his bride free. How was he supposed to know it was the prince under some stupid curse? Gaston fought the thing on the roof of the castle and fell a good two or three stories before landing on a lower parapet. He laid there for hours, writhing and gasping and crying. The monster didn’t follow him down, so he figured that they thought he was dead. 

He had been close. He’d landed on his feet first before collapsing. The doctor later told him the fall had knocked his spine out of alignment. He spent weeks laid up, his back stretched out on a splint. It was agony. But what was worse was what had followed. His people, the ones who had loved him, suddenly spat at him in the streets. “How could you try to kill our prince?” they’d yelled at him. Gaston had started plenty of fights over this, which did little to help his back or his popularity. He was dismissed. Rejected. Publicly humiliated. It was more than he could bear. 

Fifteen years later, Gaston lived in the same little town, spending much of his days either hunting or swilling beer at the tavern. No one sang his name anymore. No one bought him drinks. No one really ever talked to him anymore. 

His diet, albeit masculine, had been a bit on the unhealthy side. He was used to being active all day and needing to eat a great deal to keep up with it. His back, however, didn’t allow as much action as it used to. Dozens of eggs daily had made his square jaw and shoulders quite a bit rounder, and a gut hung over his leather belt. His dark hair had streaks of grey in it, and was tied back in a matted ponytail. When he thought back to how he used to be and looked at what he’d become, he often turned to drinking, though it only made the problem worse. 

Gaston sat at the tavern bar one gray Sunday afternoon. The patrons ignored him as they usually did, as he’d come to prefer. He couldn’t take any more reminders of how far he’d fallen. He did a good enough job of that himself. Three empty pints sat on the bar next to him, and he was working on a fourth. The bartender– perhaps out of pity– always kept a steady stream of beer ready for Gaston, and the hunter had always been grateful for it. He was the one person who didn’t criticize him for drinking so much.

“Gaston,” came a soft, tired voice from behind him. He groaned when he recognized it. 

“What do you want, Claudia?” he grunted without turning. The woman came and sat down on the stool next to him. He glanced at her turned back to his beer when he saw her annoyed expression. 

“It would be nice if you’d come home once in a while.” She tried to get in his line of vision and grabbed his arm when she failed. “Will you not even look at me?” 

With a huge sigh, Gaston turned and leaned his side against the bar. He looked his wife up and down and let out another sigh. She had been the prettiest of the triplets. She used to wear a red dress that made her cheeks look rosy. All of them had had fair skin, blonde hair, and good bodies, but Gaston had always liked how Claudia had carried herself the best. But that was a long time ago. Claudia still wore red, but the color had faded along with her beauty. Her hair was dull and her skin ashy. And her belly, swollen with yet another child, just made him shudder. She never smiled at him anymore, either.

“Neither of your sisters bothered me this much at the pub when I was married to them, you know,” he said after downing the rest of his pint. 

“You didn’t have six daughters waiting for you at home when you were married to them, either,” she spat. 

The bartender set down another mug, and Gaston turned back around to meet it. “Go home, Claudia.”

“Will I even see you tonight?” He didn’t answer. After a few seconds of silence, Gaston could hear a stifled sob and footsteps rushing out the door. 

The beer suddenly tasted sour in his mouth. He downed it in two gulps, paid his tab, and slung his musket over his shoulder. He needed to get out of that place. It was too musty, had too many memories. The only place where Gaston could really clear his head was hunting in the woods. Normally when he hunted, he almost felt like he had a little of his old self back. The air was fresh, the game was plenty, and he could be alone. 

That day, however, Gaston stumbled through the forest, his sight blurred by alcohol and bad memories. He couldn’t concentrate on anything, much less hunting. His thundering steps scared off any nearby animals. Among the drunken jumble of thoughts spinning in his head, one consistently rang clear: How did my life end up here? And every time that question came up, he had only one answer. 

Belle.

Her face kept dancing in front of his eyes. He’d thought of her as beautiful once, but now the hatred that boiled in his stomach made her as ugly as that monster she ran off with. It was all Belle. If she had just married him when he’d asked, none of this would’ve happened. 

Hours passed as he stomped deeper and deeper into the forest. Every now and then he’d see a squirrel scampering up a tree and blast his musket at it, but he never got anywhere close to a hit. His aim actually got worse as he sobered up. His anger was too sharp when it wasn’t dulled by beer. Where on earth was he? He never went this far into the woods on his hunts. How long had it been, six hours? Seven? It was getting dark. Even so, Gaston felt a sickening sort of déjà vu swirling around him. His feet almost guided themselves. 

Gaston stepped into a pool of silver moonlight in a clearing. He turned to stone. Ahead of him stood a wrought iron gate that wrapped in spirals around a giant castle. Spires and parapets shot up into the black sky, the windows glowing warm and orange. His back tensed as a flood of memories threatened to drown him. Where his breath had been caught before, now his chest heaved. His insides kept twisting themselves in knots, and everything in him felt like it was on fire. Here. She was here. This was where his world had fallen apart in a single night. Where she had ruined him. 

A new light flickered on the balcony. With squinting eyes, Gaston watched two figures stroll to the balcony rail. A man and a woman? He stared until his eyes adjusted. Yes, it was a man and woman. And not just any man and woman. It was Belle and her beast.

Gaston’s jaw clenched as he watched the man slip an arm around her waist, her play with her brown hair. It was as if these past fifteen years hadn’t touched them at all, where they had done nothing but to Gaston. There they were, happily staring at the night sky, living their lives, happily assuming that Gaston was dead. He hadn’t died, but they had still stolen his life. 

Every muscle inside him seized. It wasn’t fair. She had ruined him, but she hadn’t suffered at all. Gaston had done all the suffering. All he ever did was want her. All he did was try to take her as his wife. Yet, he was miserable, and she was happy. It wasn’t fair!

Stifling the roar that wanted to leap out of his throat, Gaston slid his musket off his back. As silently as he could, he loaded powder, wadding, and bullet into his gun. Then, closing an eye, he aimed straight at her heart. The old Gaston was dead, and Belle had killed him. He wanted her to die for such a sin. He held his breath, his finger twitching on the trigger. 

A streak of pain shot up his back, and Gaston let out a throaty howl. His arm jerked up as he squeezed the trigger, sending his shot high to hit only air. The musket clattered to the ground and he collapsed to his knees, clawing at his back. A shrill cry echoed in the air along with his gunshot, and he looked up to see the balcony was empty. Gaston cussed and pounded the ground, fighting the tears that stung his eyes. 

Even now, without even trying, she had beaten him. 

* * * 

The hike back home felt like it took a lifetime. It was probably only about three hours since he was heading straight there, but time hardly made sense anymore. He felt like he’d lived thirty lifetimes those past fifteen years, each one burying his old life under another layer of disappointment. 

The fireplace was smoldering when he stumbled in. A strip of cloth hung drying in front of it, and Gaston snatched it and tied it around his lower back. The heat untied a few of the knots in his muscles, and he let out a sigh as he plopped into his armchair. The house was quiet for once. 

As he sat, staring into space, his jaw clenched and unclenched. All he could think was, My life is a waste. He wanted to yell, overturning the table and throwing dishes, but then he’d have to deal with Claudia. She never could leave him alone. She never could understand how deeply unhappy he was, and how she couldn’t do anything to change that. He filled his lungs and emptied them. “My life is a waste,” he croaked. 

“Papa?” came the tiniest voice behind him. The sound made him jump and sent a new shot of pain up his spine. Fighting to keep another curse down, he turned in his chair to see the youngest of his girls. The raven-haired child padded to the spot in front of him, her hands behind her back.

“Madeline, you should be in bed,” he sighed, sitting back in his armchair and rubbing his temples. 

“I know, Papa, but I wanted to show you some things I made for you,” she said, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. He looked into the huge, blue eyes he had given her, and couldn’t help but grin. 

“Okay, but then you go straight to bed. You hear me?” Her tiny head nodded. “What did you make me?” Madeline pulled a canvas sack out from behind her back and held it up to him. Two long strips of fabric dangled from either end. He could hear a swishing sound as the bag shifted in the girl’s hands, and it reminded him of rain on the roof. 

“It’s a rice bag,” she said, answering the confusion on his face. “You can hang it up to get hot in front of the fireplace, and wrap it around your back when it hurts. It stays hot longer than just a rag. I know your back hurts a lot, Papa. So I wanted to help.” She put the bag in his hands, and he tossed it back and forth between them. He noticed that the cloth around his waist was already cold, and smiled down at his new alternative. 

“Thank you, Madeline. This should help a lot. You’re a good girl.” He ruffled his daughter’s hair and sat the rice bag on the floor next to his chair. “Was there anything else?” 

Madeline’s head bobbed up and down, the biggest smile on her face. In an instant, she was across the room, digging in a cedar chest in the corner. She didn’t bother to hide her creation as she marched it over to him. In her tiny hands was a chunk of wood that she’d whittled more or less into the shape of a gun. At the end of the “barrel,” she’d tied a funnel. “What is it?” Gaston chuckled.

“It’s a musket!” the girl announced proudly. “It’s just like yours! I want to be just like you when I grow up, so I have to practice shooting. You can shoot better than anyone.” Gaston felt his insides go cold. He hadn’t shot well that night. The thought of his daughter living the way he lived, feeling like a constant failure, made him feel sick. 

“Why…” he breathed, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and started again. “Why would you want to be like me?” 

Madeline’s eyebrows tangled in each other. She clutched her musket to her chest. “You’re the best, Papa. No one is like you.” 

The honesty in her voice shot straight through him, and tears spilled over his eyelids before he could stop them. She was probably the only person in the village who truly believed that he was the best. Gaston smothered his daughter in his massive arms. His chest hiccuped as he was overwhelmed by the flood of emotion. If this little girl thought he was the best, then maybe his life was worth something after all.


End file.
